


The Olive Heart

by holdupjustnow



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Post Series, Who would have thought?, after gossip girl, chuck and blair are happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 03:54:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7027438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdupjustnow/pseuds/holdupjustnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck Bass is a billionaire.<br/>Chuck Bass is a playboy.<br/>Chuck Bass is a cold-hearted Devil. </p><p>Chuck Bass is an illusion. <br/>Chuck Bass is his skin. <br/>What lies inside. The soul inside. <br/>Is nothing short. <br/>Of Blair Waldorf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Olive Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to the world of gossip girl and i actually haven't finished the series so this is probably filled with continuity errors but hey, i tried. obviously i started watching gg and thought chuck was a total bastard and id never like him.
> 
> well, whelp. not quite.

Chuck Bass is a billionaire.

Chuck Bass is a playboy.

Chuck Bass is a cold-hearted Devil.

 

Chuck Bass is an illusion.

Chuck Bass is his skin.

What lies inside. The soul inside.

Is nothing short.

Of Blair Waldorf.

 

*

 

He has always known that he was empty inside. Hollow. If you shook him like a martini his little olive heart might rattle but he would be nearly silent. He moved through his youth knowing this. Friends – yes, he supposes he had friends, and that he cared for them. Nathaniel. Serena. Eric.

Her. Girl. No, all woman. Blair. His olive heart.

But they didn’t know that he was empty. He made sure they thought he was full. Of everything. Money. Sex. Liquor. Bart knew the truth, because he created it. A father knows his son, especially when his son is a mirror. It was an early lifetime full of insecurities, of knowing for a fact that the only reason anyone spared you a passing glance was because of the clothes on your back and the cards in your wallet. He had settled himself into this life.

And then.

_I love you. So much. It consumes me. I believe in you. It’s you and me, me and you. I love you. I love you._

The weight of it sloshed through his insides, and he was empty no more. When had he fallen in love with her? Stupid question. He loved her from the rising of the sun, from the day the Earth was created – since forever, till forever. It’s more than her wicked mouth and the wicked words that come out of it, more than her pride and her grace and how much she needs him when she loses them both. It’s –

It’s her blood, and his. It’s the _power_.

_I’m not Chuck Bass without you._

His sweet olive heart between her teeth, waiting. He begs her to chew, to swallow it. There’s only the tease of her tongue and teeth, has been for decades. It’s torture to love her. He’s always been a masochist. Her blood, pure blood breed of a Waldorf. His – permanent blood alcohol of 0. Something, no good new money Bart Bass baby. When he’s with her, dripping through his Charlotte Thomas bedsheets, gouging through his Armani shirt, smearing her Yves Saint Laurent lipstick – it’s warfare. Both trying to spill the other’s precious blood. Who will give in. Who will give up.

It’s always him, even when it isn’t.

 

*

 

‘I think you love her too much.’ Nate says to him one day.

‘Simply impossible, Nathaniel.’ He says back. ‘You can never love yourself too much.’

 

*

 

They say his father was a womanizer, but that despite it all Evelyn Fisher held his heart. His wife, mother of his only child, he was faithful to her for the entirety of their relationship. He worshipped her, loved her, built New York City for her.

His father always was grandiose, even in the fodder he spread about himself. Bart Bass couldn’t be faithful to death, let alone a woman he married for social gain. He knows he’s different. Being faithful to Blair, there’s not even a question. Maybe once, when he was young. And stupid (so stupid). He’s well aware he’s been handed something special. Not buy-your-girl-something-special-this-Christmas special, but completely, totally, uniquely rare. His copious amount of money. His unquestionably loyal friends. His striking features, his able body. These things would have been enough to satisfy any man.

Yet he still somehow was handed Blair Waldorf in the process. A woman who loves him. A woman who thinks he’s _clever_. A woman who makes him burn, who sweeps his ashes into her clutch for safe keeping. It’s absurd. Even if he wanted to, he could never cheat on her.

And he doesn’t want to. It’s the only thing in the world he doesn’t want.

 

*

 

Work is work, and the days move in a waltz of meetings and construction plans. His eyes look at the contracts, his hand shakes another man’s hand – business is good. He truly does not know how many nights Bart slept at the office when he was young. Trying to count them would be like trying to count the stars in the sky.

He has spent two nights in the office. Once, because Blair was in Paris and he had nothing to go home to. And once, because they were having an argument and she shouted _You don’t even love me!_ and it had angered him so much that he had to leave. He may have come home the next night, but he didn’t talk to her for days after. She moped, as she is want to do, but he didn’t budge. She had insulted him in the worst way possible, and he wanted her to hurt for it.

‘You picked a great time to start hating me.’ She said to him.

_I don’t hate you god you’re so vain I don’t hate you you’re my insides I don’t hate you I don’t_

‘And why is that?’

‘I’m pregnant.’

Just like that, as if she were telling him about her new Malano’s or the latest gin bar that needed trialling. One look at her tells him that she isn’t so calm. Lips twitch, shoulders press back, the curve of her neck, he can see her pulse under unblemished skin

     ‘It’s mine?’

     ‘Chuck!’

He comes home every night, after that.

 

*

 

There’s disbelief, but then really, what is left to surprise him in this life? Of course the child is a boy, and of course that boy has his eyes, his mouth, his nose, his everything. The child is beyond him, and the love that threatens to burst forth from his chest is toxic. It will kill anything and anyone that tries to harm his boy, it is acid, it is incurable.

 _Henry_ , is all Blair says. _Henry. Henry. Henry._

His skin pulls in a thousand directions, and he holds Henry to his chest.

 

*

 

There is a singular downside to having a son, and that’s knowing once and for all that his own father is a monster. When he looks at Henry, every bad feeling he’s ever had, every wrong turn he’s made, even all the (many) times he’s hurt Blair make sense. Because what if he had done a single one of those things differently, and ended up in a life where Henry didn’t exist? It wouldn’t be a life. It would be death. The end of his olive heart, shrivelled.

So when he sees Bart these days, watches him talk quietly and seriously with his five-year-old son, he doesn’t try to repress his disgust. He wears it like he wears a pocket square – neat, dignified. He tells Henry never to listen to what Grandfather Bart has to say. Only listen to your mother and father. No one else. No, Henry, not even your Aunt Serena, especially not Aunt Serena.

He wants Henry to love other people. But trust will be reserved for them, as long as he can hold onto it.

 

*

 

They have another son. Richard Harold Bass. The loss of her father is the one thing he and Blair hardly discuss. When they first handed her Richard, she cried. She cried the worst he’s ever seen her cry.

‘I wanted to name him Harold.’ She sobs. ‘But he’s not Harold, is he? It’s all wrong.’

‘Your father would have been so proud of you today.’ He tells her, because it’s all he can say.

‘You were right. He’s Richard. Look at those Bass eyes, you stubborn prick. Another you, all over again.’

‘I love you.’

Telling her feels like the first time all over again. The same breath. Up and down. His heart in his throat. The newborn babe, _his_ , at her breast. Up and down. Like the sun, like the tide, like Henry’s small chest in the night.

 

One day, when the boys are grown, she will turn to him.

‘Some days, I feel like I was made to carry on the Bass name. That was my great big purpose. What I was chasing to be perfect for. So that you would…carry on.’

It’s not spiteful. It just is.

 

*

 

She dies. All people do. Maybe if he were richer, more powerful. They always called him the Devil. He should have struck up a deal with himself.

She dies.

His skin is peeled back, and everyone sees him for what he is.

And what he is.

Is nothing without.

Blair Waldorf.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :)


End file.
